Oregon daily emerald., April 28, 1978, Supplement, Page 11, Image 30

—Guest Editorial
By Ian Whitcomb
I hate the Beatles. And I hate the Stones, and Bob Dylan. I
hate them because they were destroyers of childhood. They
wrecked the funfair, stopped the carnival, knocked the rock.
And they did this by dragging dreary REAL LIFE into the
wonderful world that was POP.
Poor children of the late Sixties and early Seventies! No
romance to make first love to! No exchanging of rings, no
white sport coat and pink carnation at the senior prom! No
struggle to undo that bra! Instead the grim reality of chemi
cals: the pills and syringes. And who made the chemical
world popular? Who advocated filling oneself with poison,
and who pronounced this message with high pretentiousness
and thus sent many kids to their doom? The Beatles and the
Stones and their followers.
These invaders of Peter Pan Popland not only advocated
drug taking as the new “reality,” they also started dragging
current affairs into the scene. The Beatles did this and went
up the creek, sloshing around in philosophy of a particularly
wet and foreign kind (I mean the faker fakir called Mahar
what’s-his-name. Like most foreigners, Indians are only
good for their cooking). Following them came the illiterate,
whining Bob Dylan, with his moaning about his trivial prob
lems and his finger-pointing at poor buggers like the clerkly
Mr. Jones.
The more I write about that awful period of the Sixties the
iller I become. Why, I may have to reach for an aspirin
soon! What was that wonderful world of pop, before the
Beades! Wky did I adore it so!
Well, the main thing was that in those days, in the Fifties
and very early Sixties, the worlds of pop and real life were
separate. And we, being intelligent, though innocent, teen
agers, knew that. We were sensible enough to see pop music
as akin to eating a mammoth hot fudge sundae. In other
words, pop was a treat. Too much of the stuff could make
you sick. We knew that the joys of real music, of art, were
ahead of us: of Beethoven, Brahms, Charlie Parker, Jelly
Roll Morton and Scott Joplin. Music and Pop were worlds
apart. Pop had, and should have, little to do with musk, but
a lot to do with youth society.
Let me be specific: the heroes of the golden age of rock
and roll were wildmen writhing in gold suits with a fleet of
Cadillacs gleaming in the background (Elvis Presley); or
wildmen stalking the tops of grand pianos shouting about
having a chicken in the barn while there was a whole lotta
shakin’ goin’ on (Jerry Lee Lewis). These heroes were crazy
when they were on stage, or record, or film. They did what
we would like to do, but they confined it to the safety of the
stage. In real life such behavior would have resulted in a jail
term. We knew that, they knew that, the authorities knew it
too. And the world turned and was OK.
And to counterpoint these stage ouflaws of rock and roll
there were glamourous, relaxing singers called Bobby (Vin
ton, Vee, Darin) and sweet girls like Connie Francis (she of
the bleacher-reacher voice), and just plain good-lookers like
Fabian (for rough trade lovers) and Ricky Nelson (for those
with more sensitive leanings).
All these performers, caged on a stage, were managed by
older men, by father-figure managers. These managers were
respected — as the old should be respected. That is the way
the world turns.
But then! In come the Beatles, etc. and break the rules.
The inmates take over the asylum. The Rolling Stones, a
rude bunch who, being middle class, ought to have known
better, refused to be produced on TV shows like Shindig.
Mick Jagger told producer Jack Good to “fuck off,” when all
Jack was doing was making a little pop art. The Beatles
gradually sent their manager Brian Epstein into the world of
redundancy and, hence, to eventual oblivion. Managers
were sent packing, sent helter skelter. The old wise men ran
scared. Some departed the business. Others, presidents of
major record companies included, embraced the enemy by
signing up groups who openly advocated a way of life in
which anything goes. Hard drugs were handed out by the
major companies to their big-selling acts.
By the mid-Seventies pop had sunk into a sloshy stew of
wall-to-wall Muzak, epitomized by the pap of the grotesque,
fat and bakhng Elton John. Behold! A bank clerk elevated
into rock Stardom!
And the guilty ones who started the destruction of pop
childhood innocence — where are they? Where have all
those flowers gone?
Many are dead from chemicals; others, with teeth and
hair falling like a hard rain, are sliding into middle age.
Dylan sits alone and unrecognized at ball games, deserted
by his followers because they have seen the light and become
the hard-working Mr. Joneses he once attacked. And what
of the Beatles? Constantly being re-cycled, mummified,
made into moving wax museums (see BeatUmania), molded
into the very stuff of nostalgia. Nostalgia — the most de
structive force in the world. The true evasion of reality.
One real Beatle does survive: Paul McCartney. For him
the whole Beatle trip had a sensible goal: the raising of a
tight-knit family far from the madding crowd.
But are there nights when his dreams are full of the ghosts
of the children of the late Sixties? They scream: “You took
away our childhood, you filled us with poison, you led us
down the yellow brick road into the land of poison. And you
survived — while we sit up here in Rock Heaven listening to
the shrill demented choirs of Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison,
Jimi Hendrix. Why, they’re so fucking loud we can’t hear
Buddy Holly singing ‘I Guess It Doesn’t Matter Any
more’!!!!’’ ^
Ian Whitcomb’s book, After the Ball, is a text us massy pop culture courses.
He received his degree in American history at Trinity College, Dublin. He
wrote and recorded “You Turn Me On”and “N-Nervous,” respectable hits in
the wake of the English Invasion. Since then, he’s settled in Hollywood where
he continues to write, record, and entertain. Mae West, whom Ian once pro
duced, subsequently called him “a genius.” He never hears from John, Paul,
George, or Ringo